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“You sure about that?”

Pulling back, she searches my face. “Yeah, he knows. It’s just about someone else finding out. That’s why he’s asking me to be so cautious.”

“Right, that’s it,” I say with an incredulous huff. “You're smart, beautiful, and fun to be around. What guy wouldn't jump on the opportunity to make the moves on you? He will, I know he will, and that's also what I'm dreading. That and the no sex part.” I smirk, trying to hide the nerves drowning me inside. “The AAG prick thinks we were just a fling. At least with Jessica, she knows who has my heart. She knows about you.”

“Not that that's stopping her,” she grumbles.

I purse my lips to keep from saying something I might regret.

“It’ll be fine. You'll see, Trey.” Stepping close once again, she wraps her arms around my waist, resting her cheek on my chest.

Eyes closed, I take a deep, relaxing breath in. “And what’s worse is I’ll have a front row seat to it all. You’re lucky you don’t have to see me and Jessica together since you never go to those parties Mother forces me to attend to bolster my political future.”

Her back muscles tense beneath my palms, putting me on alert.

“Randi?”

“Sam wants us to attend as many of those parties as possible. To solidify us as a couple to Kyle but also to give him an inside eye and ear. He hopes he can make connections or see something that will aid in the investigation.”

“Great.”

“Trouble?” The shake in her voice slips through the wall of anger, breaking down my defenses. “Please don't be mad.”

I'm not mad with her, not upset that she took this avenue. I'm fucking pissed we're even at this point. And maybe a little worried that this isn't the last of the hurdles we'll have to face together.

How much more will we have to endure before it becomes too much?

Will we hold on?

Will we stay true to the end goal—us together, no games, no Kyle, Jessica, Shawn, or Sam?

Only one thing is certain at this point.

Letting go would be the easy route, even if just the thought rips my heart in two.

* * *

“Bud Light,” I grumble over the wooden bar to the older man behind it as I slide onto the creaky stool directly beside Tank. “Fuck, what a day.”

A single grunt of agreement is his only response, his attention still riveted on the large-screen TV above the row of liquor bottles showing the final World Series game.

“What do you have to complain about?” I nod my thanks to the bartender and accept the outstretched longneck in his hand. The cold glass chills my sweaty palm from the muggy temperatures outside. How it's still hot as balls when it should be fall is beyond me.

After a long pull of the ice-cold beverage, I wipe the few remaining drops from my lip with a swipe of my thumb.

“What do I have to complain about?” T says with an incredulous tone. “What doIhave to complain about?”

“That's what I said,” I say, giving him the side eye. What the hell is his problem? I'm the one with women issues, not him. He has Sarah. Amazing, no complications, a bit crazy and scary Sarah. I have a bit crazy and scary Randi who I miss like hell, even though we're together most days, and also a lot crazy—and way too clingy—Jessica, who I can't stand to be around longer than a few seconds when we're forced to interact.

Faster than I can react, his palm smacks across the back of my head. With a harsh curse, I press a couple fingers against my skull.

“What was that for?” I snap. Frowning, I tip the bottle back and drain the contents.

“For being obtuse.”

“Me? Obtuse?”

“Yes. You act surprised,” Tank huffs, finally turning his attention to me. Not breaking his expecting stare, he takes a sip of his drink, the tiny fuchsia-and-teal umbrella brushing against the tip of his nose.